Cat and Mouse
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: The Champmathieu case never happened, but Javert is still suspicious of the mayor. With no solid evidence to go on, he is forced to continue the charade until a nearly fatal accident provides him with the opportunity that he has been waiting for. But now Cosette is in the picture-a child of the gutter, just like him-and when a child's life is at stake, it changes everything.
1. Javert's Suspicions

**Author's Note: Well, this was originally intended to just be a quick little one-shot, but then I started writing it and it just kept getting longer and longer, so I ultimately decided to break it up into six or seven short chapters, and I'm pretty pleased with the result. This is sort of fluffy (okay...VERY fluffy) in some places, but I did my best to keep Javert in character, and I think I more or less succeeded. Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it, so please leave a review if you get the time. Enjoy the story! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis, and I'm not making any money off of this, so please don't sue me! (You wouldn't get much anyway...)**

**Chapter 1: Javert's Suspicion**

The raucous laughter that echoed down the halls seemed strangely out of place, more befitting of restless young men in a tavern full of scantily clad barmaids than the officers of the Paris Prefecture. Javert walked with his head down, cheeks burning with shame. He was right! He _knew_ he was right. And yet they had the gall to _laugh_ at him!

_Just because I've yet to find any definitive proof doesn't mean that it does not exist._

Instinctively, he gripped the head of his cane a bit tighter. He hadn't felt so humiliated since the days of his youth back when he was the gypsy whore's son who bore the brunt of all the prisoners' jokes. He felt the anger rising and tried to shut it out, hands trembling with rage. He dared not turn around for fear that if he did, he would impale every one of those insolent young officers upon his cane and give them a beating they'd not soon forget. He was old enough to be their father, had been in the force longer than some of them had been alive, yet they were technically his superiors. It made no sense practically speaking, but one glance at the bronze skin peeking out between the white gloves and dark sleeves was all he needed to remember _why_.

He took a deep, steadying breath. This was the part of himself that he always feared—the burning hatred that bubbled up from time to time that made him want to commit acts he knew would see him thrown behind the very bars he'd been trying to escape since he was born. He was a convict by nature, he supposed—it was in his blood, the rebellious spirit of a gypsy mother and the hot temper of a father who was an unrepentant thief—and sometimes it took everything within his power to prevent succumbing to such criminal urges. But he had learned, over time, how to control it, and so once again—with great effort—he managed to swallow back the bitterness and shove all feeling aside. To feel emotion of any kind was to be weak, and to allow it to cloud his judgment—to act on impulse—when he had come so far would make all of his hard work amount to nothing. It was anger that led to murder, jealousy that led to adultery and theft, love and poor decisions that led to children on the streets. Javert had reached such a conclusion long ago, and it was that conclusion which had driven him to the belief that to be beyond reproach he must learn to harden his heart—to feel nothing at all. But he had not been entirely successful; his heart was no longer flesh yet neither was it stone. It was wood—still alive yet inhuman; still capable of growth and subject to wounds yet unable to rejoice or cry. And this state of in-between is perhaps the most tragic of all.

Javert recognized this flaw and wondered whether perhaps it was his inability to completely detach himself from the situation that was ultimately to blame for his embarrassing predicament to begin with. Could it be, he wondered, that he had allowed his anger over Monsieur Madeleine's harsh reprimand concerning Fantine to let him see what he wanted to see? Something that wasn't there? His thoughts turned to the conversation he'd had with the Prefect a few hours earlier….

"_You can't be serious, Javert! Monsieur Madeleine? A convict? The notion is absurd! The man wouldn't hurt a fly! I've heard nothing but good things about what he's done for the city of Montreuil-sur-Mer."_

_Javert bowed respectfully. "Be that as it may, I have reason to believe that he Jean Valjean—a thief who broke his parole. I saw him nearly every day for nineteen years during my stay at Toulon and was involved with his capture for two of his attempted escapes. Forgive my boldness, but I doubt if anyone is more highly qualified to recognize him than myself."_

_The young Prefect stood, turning to face the window, hands clasped behind his back. "And why, then, are you only just bringing this to my attention?" He glanced back over his shoulder. "Could it have anything to do Monseiur le Maire exercising his authority regarding a certain prostitute?"_

_Javert blanched._

"_Oh, yes, I'm well aware of that little fiasco. News travels faster than you may think."_

"_The woman was guilty of attacking a citizen. I had every right to arrest her."_

"_And I am inclined to agree with you—if, in fact, the woman was not provoked as the mayor seemed to think. At any rate, if Monsieur Madeleine wants to waste his money on the hospital bills of dying harlot rather than letting her infect the prisoners before dying on the streets, what is that to you? Either way, the girl had not long to live. He is your superior, and unless you have proof that he is guilty of deliberately undermining the law, you have no right to denounce him."_

"_I needed time to assess him—to be sure that he was what he seemed to be."_

"_And?"_

"_I witnessed him lift a heavy cart off of a man with very little assistance. It should have taken a jackscrew to perform the job, but he was able to do it with the mere strength of his arms."_

"_So the man is strong? I see nothing illegal about his actions. If anything, I would think that such a heroic act would go _against _the very nature of most convicts."_

"_Jean Valjean was a man of incredible strength. He could lift a load it would have taken ten ordinary men to carry. There is no other man who could have accomplished such a feat."_

"_Perhaps, but I cannot arrest a man for possessing superhuman strength. Have you any further proof?"_

_Javert bit back a rather insulting remark and forced himself to reply calmly. "Madeleine greatly resembles Valjean. Further, there are no official records of his life prior to his work at Montreuil."_

"_Perhaps the man simply likes his privacy. Or perhaps he was born in poverty and there are no records to show. As I recall, there are very few official records concerning _your_ background, Inspector."_

_Javert glared, and the Prefect unconsciously took a step back. There was something distinctly canine in those silver eyes, something feral. He recovered himself quickly, sighing in frustration._

"_Listen, Javert, you're an asset to the police force and one of the most dedicated men I've ever met."_

"_Thank you, monsieur."_

_The Prefect raised a hand for silence. "But that being said, I think you're reaching for facts that simply are not there this time. You're grasping at straws. No convict would be foolish enough to put himself in such a place of power and prestige; the risk of being recognized would be too great."_

"_Which is why no one would ever expect it. It's the perfect cover."_

_The young man sighed again. "I understand your desire to apprehend this criminal, Inspector, but you cannot allow your personal feelings of distaste for the mayor of your jurisdiction to interfere with your work. And I cannot bring a man in for questioning simply because you think he MIGHT be Jean Valjean."_

"_But—"_

"_Go home, Javert. Get some rest. Or better yet, go out and get a drink. Police work is a high-stress job and can be tiring—particularly for a man your age. You're not as young as you used to be, Inspector, and there is less shame in admitting that you made a mistake for once than making yourself look like a fool by insisting otherwise. LET IT GO."_

_Javert spoke through clenched teeth. "With all due respect, monsieur, suppose I_ do _discover the real Valjean in Montreuil-sur-Mer? I have no way of delivering him to you without a warrant of arrest. It would require me to either dispatch a letter or to travel all the way to Paris and back again, giving him more than enough time to escape."_

"_Very well. I shall give you what you have asked for, Javert. But understand this: unless you can provide concrete evidence—some indisputable proof—that the man you arrest is Jean Valjean, you had best not arrest him at all or I will be forced to terminate your position."_

"_Of course, monsieur."_

"_Good." The Prefect nodded once. "You're dismissed."_

Javert felt his blood boil, the tapping of his cane against the marble floor the only sound in the deserted hall as the officers' laughter faded into silence.

_So you think I'm an idiot, do you? We shall see, monsieur. We shall see. This game of cat and mouse has gone on for far too long. You may have fooled them, Jean Valjean, but you don't fool me. _


	2. Mayor Madeleine's Secret

**Chapter 2: Mayor Madeleine's Secret**

Cosette was a shy child by nature. Quiet and reserved, she was the sort of child that most parents dreamed of—gentle, loving, and obedient to a fault. Had she grown up in a more traditional home, such qualities would have been praised, but having been subject to the Thénardiers' particular brand of cruelty, her meekness unfortunately served only to invite further abuse. As a result, the girl had withdrawn further into herself and was so timid when Valjean first took her in that for weeks he could barely get a word out of her aside from the occasional "yes, monsieur." When he'd presented her with a china doll, her eyes had widened in delight, and she'd thanked him profusely…but as soon as they'd arrived at M-sur-M, she'd placed the doll upon a shelf, and he had yet to see her take it down, though she admired it from afar. She was by no means ungrateful; she simply did not know how to play. And she never seemed to smile.

It had worried him at first, thinking that he was doing something terribly wrong and that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew in agreeing to care for Fantine's child. But children are resilient, and gradually, after months of coaxing, he began to notice a change in her behavior. It was subtle at first—the slight upward turn of her lips at something he said, the way she automatically reached for his hand rather than shying from his touch—little things that would seem trivial to most but made his old heart leap for joy. The day she took the doll down from the mantle, he knew everything would be alright.

And so it was…for a while….

xxxx

"Cosette, I'm going out for a bit. I have a few errands to run. Would you like to come with me or would you prefer to stay here?"

He hated leaving her alone in the house, but there were times when he had little choice. Hiring a maid had seemed too risky in his early years of freedom, and to do so now after years of taking care of himself seemed like frivolous spending. It would, of course, be another job—another way that he could hire someone from the community—but the possibility of being discovered still concerned him. Nevertheless, he thought Cosette could use a female figure in her life, and the poor girl had been doing chores ever since she was old enough to hold a broom. But when he'd approached her with the idea, she had firmly shook her head. Although she had learned to trust Valjean over the past few months, she was still a bit wary of anyone other than the mayor. She was used to being alone, she said, and the thought of a stranger living in the house made her uncomfortable.

The girl looked up from her make-believe tea party on the floor. "I think I'm going to stay here this time, Papa."

_Papa. _Oh, how he loved that wonderful word!

She pointed to the doll that sat across from her propped up against the sofa. "Catherine hasn't finished her tea yet."

Valjean smiled and chuckled to himself. "Alright, then. I'll be back within an hour or two. Be careful."

Cosette ran over to the door, wrapping his legs in an embrace. "Goodbye, Papa."

He planted a soft kiss on top of her head. "Goodbye, Cosette."

xxxx

Javert had been on patrol all night and most of the morning. He always took the worst shifts—the ones that no one else wanted or was willing to do—so the odd hours were nothing new; however, when his replacement failed to show up on time to relieve him of his duties, he had become rather cross. He had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours now, and the lack of sleep was beginning to have an effect on him. His nerves were wearing thin, and if he hadn't already earned a reputation as the most intimidating man on the police force, his current sour expression certainly would have done the trick.

It had been several months since his trip to Paris, and he was no further in proving that Madeleine was, in fact, Valjean. He retained his suspicions, of course, but the Prefect had made it very clear that intuition alone would not be enough to bring him in. He still hadn't fully recovered his dignity from that last encounter with his superior officers, and he found it increasingly difficult to continue to address the mayor with terms of respect. It was ironic, really—during his first few months of being stationed at M-sur-M, Javert had noticed that Madeleine took great pains to avoid running into him (another fact that would seem to indicate he was Valjean); now the opposite was nearly true. Of course, _some_ interaction was inevitable, and given the rather unlucky start to his day, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when a smiling Mayor Madeleine rounded the corner and headed in his direction.

The mayor tipped his hat. "Good morning, Javert."

The inspector forced a polite response, returning the gesture. "Monsieur le Maire."

The words were acid on his tongue. This man was no more a "monsieur" than the little gamins on the street. And he was certainly no mayor!

"I trust the streets are safe as usual under your careful watch?"

"Of course." _Safe from all except the convict masquerading as the city's mayor._

Madeleine's grin widened. "Nothing gets past you, Javert."

"No." Javert's expression darkened. "Indeed, it does not, monsieur."

The mayor's smile faltered. He looked as though he was about to respond when a piercing scream ripped through the air followed by the sound of gunfire. Without a second thought, both men dashed off in the direction of the disturbance, Javert brandishing his cudgel and Madeleine trailing close behind. Racing down the alleyway, they came upon a very flustered looking young woman.

"Stop! Thief!"

Javert noticed the mayor almost imperceptibly cringe. To the untrained eye, it would have gone unnoticed, but Javert immediately picked up on it. He regarded the man with a slightly smug smile before addressing the lady.

"What happened here, mademoiselle?"

"Oh, Inspector! Monsieur le Maire! A man just stole my purse! My fiancé tried to run after the thief when a second man attacked him! I saw them run this way." She pointed down the alley. "But I lost track of them. Then I heard gunshots!"

Javert nodded. "As did we. I'm certain other members of the police force are already on their way to help. I will see what I can do."

"Thank you, monsieur."

Ignoring Madeleine for the moment, Javert continued to head in the direction he thought the men might have taken. He knew these streets better than anyone and had a fairly good idea of the escape routes most commonly used by criminals, but when they came to a dead end, he hesitated. The path to the right led back to the main road while the path to the left ended near an abandoned warehouse. His instinct told him to go left, thinking that the man would head for the more deserted part of town, but he stopped when he felt the mayor grab his arm and pull him in the opposite direction.

"This way! They won't use that route. It's too obvious. They'll likely head out into the streets in hopes that we'll lose them in the crowd."

Javert started to reprimand him but quickly remembered just whom he was working with.

_He thinks like a thief, _he reminded himself. _He knows how their minds work._

Mentally storing away the mayor's self-incriminating remark for later use, Javert reluctantly followed his lead and ran after him. Within seconds of emerging into the bustling street, however, he began to regret his decision, thinking that perhaps Madeleine—being a thief himself—had taken pity on the scoundrel and intentionally led him in the wrong direction. But then he spotted it—a scuffle between two men heading down a side road. If the thieves' plan had been not to draw attention, they were failing miserably; two or three of his fellow officers were already running toward them. But they wouldn't be fast enough. Shoving the mayor aside, Javert sprinted ahead, arriving just in time to deliver a crippling blow to the head of the man who had pulled a gun on who he assumed was the woman's fiancé.

Panting heavily, the man sat up, lifting the purse victoriously. "Thank you, Inspector!" He gave an appreciative nod, then brushed himself off and headed back in the direction from whence he came when he noticed his bride-to-be waving at him from across the street.

Javert started to handcuff the unconscious man but stopped short. Something wasn't right. They had caught _one_ of the criminals, but where was the man's accomplice? He glanced up.

"Javert, watch out!"

A force more powerful than anything he'd ever felt suddenly rammed into his side, knocking the breath out of his lungs as he slammed into the brick wall of a corner store. The thunderous explosion of a pistol echoed down the alley, and Madeleine fell in a crumpled heap at his feet.

Momentarily stunned, the inspector blinked. _Could it be that I was mistaken after all?_ He shook it off.

"AFTER HIM!"

In the blink of an eye, the police who had gathered scattered like flies, one dragging the half-conscious form of the first crook, the other two racing like mad after the man who had dared to open fire on an officer.

Having seen to his duty, Javert turned his attention back to the mayor, eyes filled with agonizing guilt and remorse. This man who had saved his life could not possibly be who he thought he was. He knelt down, noticing the bright red splotch that had blossomed on the mayor's chest.

"Monsieur le Maire," he whispered quietly, "you need a doctor." He slipped one arm behind his back, intending to help him stand. "I will take you to the hospital."

"NO!" He gasped in pain. "No doctors! Just help me get home."

"Monsieur le Maire—"

"I'll be fine."

The inspector started to peel away the fabric from his chest.

"Javert, _please!_"

"Monsieur le Maire, you've just been shot! You're blee—"

Javert stopped breathing. There, underneath all the blood-soaked layers of cloth, was a number burned into the skin. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet those of the other man whose face had gone white as a sheet. His gaze hardened.

"Jean Valjean."

And then the mayor fainted in his arms.


	3. The Gypsy and the Girl

**Chapter 3: The Gypsy and the Girl**

For the first time in his life, Javert was at a loss of how best to proceed. There were no guidelines for this sort of situation.

He now possessed enough definitive evidence to prove that the man who claimed to be Mayor Madeleine was actually Jean Valjean, but to turn him over to the law in his current condition seemed out of the question. He would likely die before they even reached the prison. Death, of course, could also be considered a form of punishment, he supposed, but if he died like this he would be viewed as a martyr rather than a public example, and at any rate, his crimes were not worthy of such a severe sentence; he was thief and an escape artist—not a killer or an insurrectionist.

On the other hand, he could not merely walk into the town hospital and expect the doctor to treat him without noticing the brand. If he was recognized as a criminal, Javert himself could very well be fined or—heaven forbid—lose his job for harboring a convict.

The thought briefly crossed his mind to simply let nature take its course. It was not _his_ fault, he reasoned, that the man had been stupid enough to jump in front of a loaded gun. If he died, he died. No more Jean Valjean to worry about. Problem solved. But criminal or not, the man had quite literally just taken a bullet for him, and to leave him here to die on the streets seemed just a bit too much like murder for Javert's taste; he would not have a man's blood on his hands—not even Jean Valjean's.

At long last the inspector sighed, lifting the mayor up with one arm around his shoulders and the other just beneath his knees. Given the man's current condition, Javert very much doubted that Jean Valjean would be running anytime soon. He could turn him over to the police later. First, he had to make sure the man would be alive to serve his sentence.

xxxx

Luckily, the mayor's house was not far. Upon arriving, Javert promptly kicked in the door and immediately cursed under his breath when he heard the sound of shattering china. In his rush to get Valjean home, he had completely forgotten about the child who now resided with him.

Cosette stood, trembling, clutching her doll close to her chest, and backed away slowly from the broken fragments of the teacup on the floor, eyes wide with horror as she took in the stranger and the unmoving figure in his arms.

He could only imagine what must have been going through her mind. Javert had never considered himself handsome; he was a big, burly man with massive hands and a chiseled jaw. Such features might have been considered almost attractive had it not been for the dark skin and thick black hair—traits that often made him feel more ape than man amid the sea of white faces he saw every day. In truth, he abhorred his own reflection, and seeing such an intimidating figure carrying what appeared to be the dead, bloodied body of her adoptive father, he supposed, had probably terrified the girl. For all she knew, he could be the killer.

Well, let her be afraid. She wasn't the first person to fear him, and he doubted she'd be the last.

He laid Valjean on the sofa, careful not to cause further injury, and looked up at the girl. "Go fetch something to wrap his wound."

Cosette nodded, still wary, and scurried off as fast as she could, racing up the stairs with the doll still in her arms. Javert had no idea whether she would actually return or simply hide, but at least the errand would get her out of the way.

Turning his attention back to face his fallen enemy—was he even still considered an enemy if he had saved his life?—Javert began to meticulously remove layer after layer of clothing until he was able to access the wound, pulling up a chair beside the sofa so he could sit as he worked by the firelight. He had to cut some of the fabric to prevent moving the injured man around. When he was finally able to see the skin, he cursed again.

"Valjean, you idiot!" he hissed.

The wound was deep, and he had lost a lot of blood, but it appeared to be a clean shot; the bullet had gone straight through, and there was no evidence as of yet to believe that something vital had been punctured. Nevertheless, he would die if the wound wasn't dressed properly and the bleeding stopped.

_It would be so easy…_ he mused. _No one would blame you if you let a convict die._

_No, but they _would_ blame you for letting the _mayor_ die._

_He's no mayor. Not really._

_The king appointed him, didn't he?_

_But he didn't know who he is! That makes the claim invalid._

_Not everyone on the police force is entirely aware of _your _past either. Does that make your title of Inspector any less valid?_

He was stirred from his musings by the sound of tiny footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Cosette carrying an armful of supplies, a small medical kit tucked under one arm and some old tattered sheets in the other. He hadn't truly expected her to be so quick about it—but then, he supposed, she was likely used to fending for herself. From what little he knew about the child's previous living conditions, it was to his understanding that the innkeepers were perhaps not the generous, kind-hearted Christians Fantine had believed them to be. She quietly set down the items at his feet and then backed away again, watching intently as he began tearing the fabric into strips.

Javert felt slightly unnerved by her unwavering gaze, as if he was a specimen being studied underneath a microscope. He'd been stared at like that before. Usually by people who found his complexion either exotic or repulsive. He supposed she'd never seen a gypsy before. He gave a grunt of disapproval and addressed her without looking up.

"If you're just going to sit there and stare at me, you may as well make yourself useful."

He handed her a pair of scissors, which she accepted without a word. They worked in silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of ripping fabric and the metallic shearing of the scissors' blades filling the air between them. He was surprised when she was the first to speak.

"Monsieur?"

"Mmmh?"

"What happened to my papa?"

Javert inwardly sneered at the affectionate term. _Naïve, foolish girl! She idolizes him as if he was her savior! _

Yet a small, quiet voice spoke up in the back of his mind. _He's your savior too, _it whispered.

Javert ignored it.

"He was shot."

"Why?"

"He was assisting me in apprehending a thief." He cringed. Put that way, it really did make Valjean sound like a hero.

"Will he be alright?"

"I don't know."

She grew quiet again, as if grimly contemplating the consequences of what might happen if things took a turn for the worst. She seemed to accept the fate more calmly than he'd expected, studying the bloodied mess of cloth he pressed to the wound with far more composure than a child her age should possess, and it occurred to him that perhaps such gruesome injuries were not an uncommon sight to her. The thought troubled him.

She furrowed her brow suddenly.

"Why does Papa have a number on his chest?"

Javert sighed. "You ask too many questions."

In truth, he wasn't certain how to answer. Ordinarily, he would have given the straightforward response that the man was a criminal and that prisoners were branded so that if they escaped everyone knew they were a convict. Child or not, Javert was not one to sugar-coat the subject matter to spare another's feelings; the truth was the truth, and children would learn the harshness of the world sooner or later. Better to expose them to reality early on and make them forget their childish, fanciful ideas than to crush their spirit later on. But this time it was different.

The fact that Valjean had a child now complicated things. If the man was returned to prison, what would become of the girl? A child so young could not possibly find work—aside from, perhaps, child prostitution. Would she become what her mother had been? The idea sickened him. It was a legal profession, perhaps, but certainly not one that was smiled upon. And the only other option would be to become a thief herself. Javert had been fortunate in that he'd grown up in a prison, so despite the fact that he was more or less on his own from the beginning, he'd easily been able to find a way into the police force and escape the system…but being female made such an option impossible for her…even if decided to take her under his wing. Not that he would consider it. He highly doubted she'd want anything to do with him if he carted off her "father" to jail. And at any rate, Javert had no idea how to deal with children.

But could he simply leave her out on the streets? It wasn't _her_ fault that her father had abandoned her. It wasn't _her_ fault her mother had given birth to her out of wedlock or that her adoptive caregiver was a thief. She hadn't asked for any of this. She hadn't asked to be born. Her parents might have sinned, but she was innocent of any crime. Javert knew from experience what it meant to be looked down upon because of a parent's mistakes, and he could not, in good conscience, subject her to that sort of cruelty.

He felt movement beside him and looked up to see that Cosette had moved to the other side of him and was peering over the arm rest of the couch to see what he was doing.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"No."

She frowned. "Can I watch?"

He sighed. "If you must."

She stared curiously at the dark hands as they wound a long strip of cloth around her father's pale chest. The contrast was glaringly obvious in the firelight, and Javert couldn't help but feel a sudden overwhelming sense of shame. He caught her eye, and she immediately looked down, aware of the thinly veiled hostility simmering just beneath the calm outer façade.

"Is there something you want to ask?"

It came out sounding a bit harsher than he'd intended, and she flinched. There was a flicker of something in her eyes that went beyond the fear of the law or the fear of an oddly colored stranger. Almost as if she expected him to strike her.

Cosette bit her lip. He could see that she was trying to be polite and as tactful as possible—a courtesy that most adults never afforded him—and his expression softened, if only slightly.

She hesitated. "Why are you so dark?"

He closed his eyes. There it was. She had said it. Only a child could address the elephant in the room with such directness and get away with calling it innocence.

"I am a gypsy. Or at least, my mother was. I don't remember much about her and what little I do I'd prefer to forget."

He didn't know why he was telling her this, a child—_Valjean's_ child—of all people. He continued to wrap the wound, intent on dropping the subject.

She leaned forward to get a better look. "I don't remember my mother much either. But I don't want to forget her. She was a good person."

Javert grunted with something that was akin to amusement. "What makes you so certain of that?"

"Because she loved me. Papa told me so."

The mayor suddenly stirred, mumbling something in his semi-delusional state, struggling against the hands that held him down.

"Hold still, Valjean!" he grumbled. "You're making it bleed again!"

He struggled for a moment more, giving in only when the pain and dizziness forced him back into the realm of unconsciousness. When he was certain that he had stopped moving, Javert gradually released his grip.

Cosette frowned. "Who is Valjean?" she asked curiously.

"It is your father's name. His real name is Jean Valjean, not Madeleine."

"Oh." The girl pursed her lips thoughtfully. "My real name is Euphrasie, but I don't like it. Nobody calls me that. I'm—"

"Cosette. I know."

Cosette looked mildly surprised. "What is _your_ name, monsieur?"

"Javert."

"Javert." She tried it out. The name felt funny on her tongue. "I've never heard that name before."

"It's a gypsy name."

As much as he hated it, he had no idea what his father's surname was—or even his first name, for that matter. He'd only ever seen the man at a distance once or twice when his mother had pointed him out in the galleys.

The girl considered the information thoughtfully. She smiled. "I like it."

Well, that was a first. Javert had been given a lot of grief over his name throughout the years. People were always suspicious whenever they came across his name on paper. It had a strange, foreign ring to it that made them question his ethnicity before they ever even laid eyes on him, and more than once it had cost him when he'd asked to transfer jurisdictions; no one wanted a gypsy on their team. As a result, he'd come to resent his name, so hearing that someone actually _liked_ it came as a bit of a shock.

It was at that particular moment that Cosette's stomach decided to let out a rather unpleasant growl. She gasped and looked down, ashamed.

"Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

Javert narrowed his eyes. "Do not lie to me, child. When did you last eat?"

"This morning. Before Papa left."

Javert glanced up at the clock. It was late afternoon. And he realized, somewhat belatedly, that he himself had not eaten—or slept—since the day before. He suddenly felt extremely tired.

"But it's alright!" Cosette hurriedly assured him. "I've gone a lot longer without eating. I mean, before…." She trailed off, then quickly amended her sentence. "I can wait."

"You will not." He pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket and held them out to her. "Take this and go buy something for us to eat. I am hungry as well."

Hesitantly, she took the coins. She reminded him of a wild bird—a lark, perhaps—taking seed from his outstretched palm. Her hand looked so tiny, so frail, compared to his.

She turned to leave but paused to kiss her surrogate father on the forehead, brushing a damp strand of graying hair off to the side. It was unlike anything Javert had ever witnessed, and it touched him far more than he would admit. If this girl—this innocent child—could love Valjean so much, was it possible that Valjean loved her as well? Could a man change despite his scars? Cosette looked up and caught his eye, suddenly looking very serious.

"Please take care of him, Monsieur Javert. He's all I've got."

Javert watched her go with a strange mixture of emotions swirling in his heart. It was learning to feel again, it seemed. And he suddenly remembered why he'd never allowed it to before—it hurt.


	4. A Lesson in Mercy

**Author's Note: This chapter was really hard for me to write, and I'm not sure if I'm entirely pleased with how it turned out. :/ Hopefully, you'll think it's okay. Btw, I realized that there are a lot more references to the book than to the play in this story, so I probably should have posted it under a different category...but hopefully you guys will get the gist of things. Sorry if anyone gets a little lost. Also, fun fact about last chapter: I actually did a search to see where the last name Javert came from, and I basically came up empty. Apparently, very few people in real life have that name, so maybe it's just something random that Hugo came up with. So, yeah...it's not necessarily a gypsy name, but I felt like with it being so uncommon I could play with things a little. (But, seriously, wouldn't it be awesome if your last name really WAS Javert?!)**

**Chapter 4: A Lesson in Mercy**

Cosette returned a half an hour later, arms laden with sweet breads and pastries from the local bakery. Javert had intentionally given her more than enough money to cover the basics, but he was a bit surprised that she had indulged as much as she did given how frugal Valjean seemed to be. There was clearly more than enough food for just two people…particularly when one of those two people was a very small girl.

She set the food down on the coffee table and reached into her pocket to return the change, which he accepted. She took a small roll for herself and handed him a rather expensive-looking pastry.

"I hope it's alright," she said worriedly. "I didn't know what you liked."

Javert nodded. "You shouldn't have spent so much."

Cosette looked down, cheeks flushing red with shame. "I'm sorry. I can return it if you like. I just thought that—"

"Nevermind. This will do."

They ate in silence for a moment, each observing the other out of the corner of their eye. Being the police inspector that he was, Javert had a knack for noticing details that others might have missed, and looking at her now, he caught several features that he hadn't had time to pay attention to before. He had seen her briefly when she first arrived with Valjean, and she had looked almost sickly; now she looked better, but she was still rather thin and incredibly small for her age—a trait likely the result of malnutrition rather than heredity. Her short blonde hair was woven skillfully into a single French braid that was far too neat to be the work of the clumsy fingers of a child. He could hardly imagine Valjean possessing such a talent, but then again, the man was always full of surprises. The blue velvet dress she wore, however, was perhaps the most telling detail of all. It was early spring now, and the days were getting warmer—high time for winter clothing to be put away—but she was still wearing the same dresses most girls wore in December. The sleeves covered nearly every inch of skin on her arms, and despite the warmth of the fire, she never pushed them up—as if there was something she was trying to hide. And he knew if he looked exactly what he'd find. For the briefest of moments he wondered whether Valjean was responsible for the marks, but he quickly dismissed the notion; the child's gaze held nothing but adoration and the deepest affection when she looked at him—and truth be told, Javert was a tiny bit envious. To be important enough to someone to be considered worthy of such concern was quite beyond his comprehension.

For her part, Cosette was not quite sure what to make of the man seated before her. He reminded her of a large black wolf with those silver eyes and dark, thick whiskers. She had heard stories of such creatures before—creatures that gobbled up little girls in a single bite—and yet the look in his eyes was far from savage. Despite his frightful appearance, Javert lacked the evil she had seen in Thénardier. His eyes maintained the intelligent, intimidating demeanor of a predator but not the sort of bloodlust she had been expecting; this wolf hunted only to survive. There was a fierce loyalty in those eyes, a deeply protective instinct that told her he would snap if his master were threatened. But there was no malice, and so, she did not fear him.

Having completed her assessment, Cosette finished eating half of the roll she'd picked out and wrapped the remainder of her bread in a clean handkerchief.

"Was it not to your liking?"

The deep voice startled her out of her reverie.

"Oh, no! It was very good! I'm just saving the rest of it for later to share with Catherine."

Javert raised a shaggy eyebrow. Had Valjean taken in_ another_ girl off the streets? He wouldn't be surprised. "Catherine?" he asked.

"My doll," she explained.

"Ah." He looked back at the table. "And what do you expect me to do with all this food?"

Cosette pointed to a large glazed pastry. "That one is for Papa when he wakes up. To celebrate."

"I see."

"But you can have some if you like. It was your money, after all." She bit her lip. "I hope you don't mind. I should have asked you first."

He _should_ have minded, perhaps, but he couldn't bring himself to be too terribly angry with her. The poor girl had hardly taken anything for herself, and even Valjean's share probably cost less than half of what it took to buy the pastry she'd offered him.

_Such a generous child_, he thought. _Did Valjean teach her that?_

She certainly hadn't learned it from those two crooked innkeepers.

"Yes, you_ should_ have." He frowned. "But no matter. It is done now."

As he was speaking, a tiny gray mouse ran across the floor, pausing to nibble on the crumbs that had fallen beneath the table. Javert stood, lifting a boot with the intent to crush the vermin, but Cosette beat him to it.

"Wait! Don't kill it!"

She was up in a flash, snatching up an empty pail from beside the fireplace and covering the tiny creature before he had the chance to bring his foot down. Slowly, she lifted the edge of the bucket, peering at the set of beady eyes that stared back fearfully in the sliver of light that penetrated underneath.

Javert sighed. "I hardly think Valj—" he paused to correct himself, "_Monsieur Madeleine_—would appreciate waking to find his house infested with mice."

_Not that it will matter, since he'll be returning to prison soon anyway._

Cosette gently coaxed the mouse into the bucket and scooped it up, examining the tiny creature as it tried unsuccessfully to scale the slippery walls. She looked up sadly. "He didn't do anything wrong," she protested. "He was just hungry."

Javert frowned. "Yes, well, be that as it may—" He stopped short when he noticed that Cosette had unwrapped her bread and pinched off a tiny piece, which she dropped into the bucket. "Don't _feed_ it!"

"Why not?" The child looked truly perplexed.

He sighed again, trying not to lose his patience. _I can't believe I'm having this conversation. _"You're _rewarding_ it for something it shouldn't have done in the first place. If you let it go, it will tell all the other mice that they can come here and steal as much food as they please."

"Or maybe it will tell the others to leave us alone because we were nice to it."

He snorted. "I highly doubt that."

"All it wanted was a little piece of bread."

The inspector frowned again. This story was beginning to sound a little _too_ familiar. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the girl was intentionally trying to get under his skin. He glared.

"Mice are pests. They steal food. It's what they have always done, and it's what they will always do. If you let it go free, it will come right back."

She shrugged. "Maybe this one will be different."

"It won't be."

"Maybe…." She bit her lip. "But how do you know if you don't give it a chance?"

"OH, FOR GOODNESS—" He snatched the bucket out of her hands. "This is _ridiculous_! It is only a mouse! Why do you care whether it lives or dies?!"

Cosette looked up, suddenly feeling very small and very much aware of just how big Javert was now that he was standing at his full height. She ducked her head timidly and began playing with the folds of her dress.

"Mice have to eat too," she mumbled quietly.

And then he understood. She wanted to save the mouse because somewhere in those dark, beady eyes, she saw a reflection of herself—tiny, helpless, quivering with fear, just trying to survive in a world full of giants who wanted nothing more than to trample all of her hopes and dreams. And Javert knew he would be lying if he said he'd never felt the same.

In one swift movement, he snatched up the mouse and clamped his fingers down around it, its high-pitched squeaks of protest falling on deaf ears as he began to squeeze.

He curled his fingers a little tighter, and the mouse went silent.

Tighter. It stopped struggling.

_Tighter_. Cosette let out a little gasp of horror.

The inspector looked up. Then, as if he had only just become aware of what he was doing, he suddenly stopped, walked over to the door, and tossed the frightened, dazed creature out onto the street, looking slightly disgusted with himself. It hesitated only for a split second before scurrying off as fast as its little legs would carry it, and Javert watched it go with the sinking feeling that he had just done something terribly wrong.

After a moment, he turned back to Cosette, her expression of relief quickly falling when she saw his stern expression. The wolf growled.

"Don't let it happen again."


	5. Faith Like a Child

**Chapter 5: Faith Like a Child**

It is a great and terrible thing to hold the trust of a child. Javert had made no promises concerning Jean Valjean's well-being, and yet Cosette held the unwavering conviction that as long as he remained by their side, nothing could go wrong. In her mind, his word was (quite literally) the law; if he said things would be alright, then she believed him with every fiber of her being. And it absolutely terrified him. To have someone hold such complete faith in his abilities was slightly overwhelming, and although he had never doubted himself before, he suddenly began to fear that perhaps he wouldn't turn out to be quite the hero she imagined him to be.

It had been three days now, and Valjean still showed no signs of improvement. If anything, he had gotten worse, becoming increasingly delirious as the days wore on. Sometimes he would cry in his sleep, yelling or cursing as he had in his days of being a galley slave. Sometimes he would lash out, and Javert would have to hold him down. Those occasions always seemed to upset Cosette the most. He was an entirely different person then, nothing like the kindhearted mayor who had taken her in, and to see such a sudden change come over him was a bit startling even for Javert. Having known him as "Mayor Madeleine" for quite some time now, he had almost forgotten just _how_ surly Jean Valjean had once been, but seeing the two personas side by side, it was obvious that they were not the same man…and yet, if Jean Valjean still appeared in his subconscious, did that not mean that Mayor Madeleine was still capable of behaving like a convict?

Javert sighed and rubbed his temples. This was the longest he had ever been away from work and the most tired he had ever been. It was generally accepted that the mayor had specifically requested his assistance in recovery, so he hadn't needed to ask for time off. In fact, when he'd briefly gone into the station to explain the circumstances, the presiding officer had practically shoved him out the door so he could get back to attending the more urgent matter of the mayor's health. Of course, Monsieur Madeleine had done no such thing. In truth, he was in no condition to ask _anyone _for _anything. _But it was probably better that the people didn't know that. Or that he was a convict. Javert had had a lot of time to think over the past few days, and he_ still_ didn't know what he was going to do with Valjean when he recovered. _IF_ he recovered. At first, Javert had thought it was simply blood loss that had made him drowsy, but by the end of the second day, it was apparent that some sort of infection had set in—likely something he'd contracted prior to being wounded made worse by being shot with a less-than-sterile bullet. Now they were nearing the end of the third, and his fever was raging. Javert wondered whether he should send for a priest.

Cosette had been particularly quiet that afternoon, her usual inquisitive chatter having gone silent several hours ago, as if she sensed that something was wrong. Ordinarily, she would have been telling him about Catherine or asking him about his job or his family or how he'd first met Valjean—that one had been interesting to explain, though he somehow managed to give an answer that, while truthful, had been vague enough not to reveal anything too specific. He feared that if she knew the entire story it would somehow degrade him in her eyes, and though he didn't know why her opinion mattered to him, it did.

At first, he had welcomed the break in conversation, grateful for a chance to breathe, but when she failed to start back up again, he became concerned. He kept waiting for her to say something—anything—to break the tension that had settled in the room. Instead, she watched him change the bandages in silence, lips set in a grimly determined line. When she finally did decide to speak, it was not what he had been expecting. She lifted her blue eyes to meet his gray ones.

"He's never going to wake up…is he?"

He could see the tears pooling in her eyes, saw her bottom lip start to quiver. The façade was crumbling. And he _wanted_ to tell her that it would be okay, that tomorrow morning the sun would rise and Valjean would open his eyes and everything would be alright. But Javert had never told a lie in his life. He didn't believe in giving false hope. And he couldn't bring himself to do it now—even if he knew that it would break her heart.

"No, I don't believe he will."

She tried unsuccessfully to blink back the tears and looked down in shame, hugging her arms around her chest to hold in the sobs.

Javert was taken aback. He had never been particularly fond of children, and he was not good at coping with openly displayed emotion, so having a highly emotional child looking to him for comfort and support was not a situation he had ever foreseen himself being in. He didn't know what to do, so he responded the only way he knew how.

"Crying won't help," he chided gruffly.

He knew that from experience. _Oh_, how he knew. How many nights as a child had he lain awake on the streets with only the stars for a blanket and only the wind to dry his tears? How many times had he risen from dreams with sweat on his brow and drops of grief on his cheeks? And they had profited him nothing. The world did not care if you were lonely or hungry or cold. The day he had received his uniform, he'd left his childhood behind. And he hadn't shed a single tear since.

Cosette leaned into her shoulder, attempting to dry her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her dress, but the moment she wiped the tears away, her eyes were wet again.

"Don't wipe your face on your sleeve," he scolded her.

She lowered her eyes again, looking absolutely miserable.

Javert gave a frustrated sigh and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Come here," he ordered.

Cosette obeyed without protest, but instead of stopping in front of him as he'd expected her to, she proceeded to climb up into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck and sobbing into his chest, her tiny body shaking with each labored breath.

Javert froze, stiffening the moment he felt the unfamiliar contact. He was uncomfortable to say the least…and yet, he had never felt so wanted, so _needed_ in all his life. It was a strange feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. Slowly, he let the handkerchief fall to the ground and brought a single large hand to rest behind her head.

And she clung to him even more fiercely than before.

"Oh, Monsieur Javert, I don't want him to die!" she cried. "I don't want to be alone again!"

Javert said nothing, hoping guiltily that death would make the decision he didn't want to make; for if Valjean lived, he knew what he would have to do. And it would break her. Either way, it seemed, he had failed. But at least death would be easier for her to understand.

He held her like that all through the night until the tears ran dry and she cried herself to sleep and long into the early hours of the morning, praying all the while that, whatever happened, when the dawn finally came he wouldn't let her down.


	6. Duty and Right

**Chapter 6: Duty and Right**

"Cosette."

Javert peered down at the small girl in his lap. She had fallen asleep with her head resting against his chest, one hand lying limply in her lap, the other still clutching the buttons of his uniform as if her life depended on it. She looked so peaceful. He hated to wake her up to break the news. He gently shook her by the shoulder.

"Cosette, wake up."

She tensed, jumping a little at the sound of the voice which had pulled her from her dreams, and abruptly sat up, blinking in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the window. Giving a polite little yawn, she stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her eyes widened slightly when she remembered the events of the night before, her attention immediately drawn to the still figure on the sofa.

"No!" she gasped. She looked up helplessly into the inspector's eyes. "He…he isn't…. P-please say Papa isn't—"

Javert's eyes darted to where Valjean lay unmoving, his face bearing an unreadable expression that seemed to waver between relief and dread. "No," he answered quietly. "His fever has broken. He's resting soundly now. He should wake by nightfall."

Cosette momentarily forgot how to breathe, afraid she'd heard her new friend wrong. "You mean…he's going to be alright?" she asked, hardly daring to hope. "It's over?"

Javert nodded grimly, eyes still focused on the mayor. "It's over."

There was something unsettling in his gaze, but Cosette shrugged it off as merely the result of a stressful night. Then, all at once, the realization sank in, and she felt her heart leap in a sudden burst of joy.

"You did it!" She grinned. "You saved him!"

But Javert found that he could not meet her gaze. The innocent smile that lit up her face was absolutely _killing_ him. And for the first time in his life, he wanted to curse the law.

The inspector sighed, taking Cosette by the shoulders and gently pushing her away. "Cosette, there is something I must tell you…something you may not wish to hear."

He didn't want to do this.

He withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket—the arrest warrant for Jean Valjean. He had his proof now. One word to the authorities in Paris, and he would regain their respect. But at what price? Could he do what the law required of him even if went against his personal conscience? Did he have a choice? And more importantly, could he live with himself if he made the wrong one? His hand was trembling.

He didn't _want_ to do this!

_But you must!_

He felt a light touch on his arm. Cosette stared up at him, her delicate brow furrowed in concern. "Monsieur?"

Javert closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he looked directly at her with an expression that was not quite sorrowful but _almost _apologetic. He had never felt the need to explain himself before; there was nothing shameful in simply doing one's job. If everyone chose to indulge their personal beliefs and interests over the keeping of the law, the world would fall into chaos and ruin…but what if what was _right_ and what was _lawful_ conflicted?

_You ARE the law_, he reminded himself. _For you, there is no difference._

"Sometimes, Cosette, the mouse cannot be saved. Sometimes the cat must win."

Cosette cocked her head, confused. "I…don't understand." She had nearly forgotten about their uninvited houseguest from a few days prior and could not understand why such an insignificant event would trouble him so deeply. "Why would you send out a cat now, monsieur? The mouse is probably long gone. He won't cause any more trouble." She paused. "And anyway, he didn't really take that much—just a few crumbs. It seems silly to worry over it now."

Javert recalled reading, once, that there was no greater love than that of a man who would lay down his life for a friend; what, then, did that say about the character of a man who would lay down his life for an adversary? [1] Was such a man—even if he _was_ formerly a thief—deserving of the galleys? And if not—the thought terrified him—was it possible the law was _wrong_?

He shook his head.

_The law is never wrong_. He had to believe that. He _had_ to, or else he'd have to call into question everything he'd ever done—every decision he'd ever made. _He's a convict._

_And a good man._

_He cannot be both saint and sinner! The two cannot coexist. People are incapable of change. _

But Cosette's voice whispered in his ear. _Maybe, _it said, _this one will be different._

"Yes…." He seemed to consider her words for a moment—such wisdom coming from the mouth of a child. And she wasn't even aware of it. "I suppose it does seem rather foolish, doesn't it?"

Javert looked from Cosette back to Valjean. He took one last glance at the envelope in his hand and threw it into the fire.

[1] See John 15:13.

**C'mon, guys, you didn't REALLY think I was gonna kill off Valjean, did ya? I'm not THAT mean! I mean, Les Mis has enough death in it without me adding to it. :P So, Valjean's out of the danger zone now, but he still has to wake up. Wonder how he'll react to Javert now that he knows his secret is out? I've got ONE more chapter for you guys, so stay tuned! :)**


	7. The End of Jean Valjean

**Chapter 7: The End of Jean Valjean**

It was late afternoon when Valjean finally opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, as if trying to recall how he had managed to end up back in his house. The last thing he remembered was fainting in the alleyway. Javert had recognized him—of that he was certain. But why, then, was he not in a cell? Had it all been a dream? And what had become of Cosette? His eyes widened.

"Cosette!"

He started to get up but stopped short when he felt a burning sensation in his lower chest, gasping in pain.

"And where do you suppose you're going?"

Valjean froze, paralyzed by the voice coming from behind. He turned to see Javert propped nonchalantly against a support beam eyeing him with passive indifference.

"You realize you're on house arrest, of course—at least until that chest wound heals."

"Javert, I—"

But the inspector seemed not to have heard and continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You won't be able to return to your duties at the factory for at least another week, I imagine, so you'd best get comfortable being here." He paused. "I'm afraid the sofa's ruined, but it could not be helped. Your wound needed immediate medical attention, and as you refused a doctor's care, I had little other choice."

Valjean was nonplussed. "The factory?" He frowned. "Why would I be going to the—?"

"In case you have forgotten, monsieur, _some_ of us have duties to attend to. In fact, thanks to you, I am nearly _four days_ behind schedule at the office—not to mention the fact that they had to find a replacement to cover my night patrol shift. However, I suppose it is of little consequence as I likely would have been otherwise indisposed if not for your…interference."

It was the closest thing he'd ever heard to a 'thank you' from Javert, and he could not comprehend why the man still had not arrested him.

"But…the number...on my chest…in the alley…you saw…."

Javert retained an air of cool detachment. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, monsieur. Perhaps the blood loss has affected your memory. You were feverish for quite some time."

Valjean frowned. "Javert, do you not recognize me?"

"Of course I do." Javert scowled, looking mildly offended. "You're Monsieur Madeleine, owner of a black glass factory, mayor of the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and adoptive father to Fantine's child…which reminds me…." He turned to call up the stairs. "Cosette?"

There was the thumping of tiny feet on the wooden floor above. She appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later in her nightgown, hair still damp from the bath that she had drawn. "Is something wrong, monsieur? I heard you calli—" She stopped when her eyes landed on the couch. Then all at once she was flying down the stairs. "PAPA! PAPA! You're awake!"

She ran to his side, flinging her arms around him in a tight embrace, forgetting for a moment that he was injured in her childish enthusiasm. He inhaled a sharp breath.

"Mind his side, Cosette," Javert reminded her.

Cosette released her grip and looked down sheepishly. "Sorry, Papa! I'm just so happy that you're alright! Monsieur Javert said you would be, but then it took so long for you to wake up and—"

Valjean placed a finger to her lips and smiled. "I am fine, Cosette."

She snuggled up into his arms, hugging him gently as he pulled her in close to his chest. "I missed you, Papa."

Javert watched the exchange with a slight twinge of regret, feeling suddenly out of place. He had no right to witness such a private moment. Retrieving his hat, he quietly made his way to slip out the back door.

But Cosette caught him before he could leave. "Monsieur Javert," she called after him, "wait!" He felt a tiny pair of arms latch around his leg. "Don't go."

Valjean swore he saw a whisper of a smile cross the inspector's face. He laid a giant hand on top of her wet hair.

"I am sorry, _ma chère_, but I must. My shift begins in an hour, and I have already neglected my duty for far longer than I should have. Your father is well now. My presence here is no longer needed."

"But you'll come back, right?" She looked up, hopeful. "For a visit?"

His eyes met Valjean's. "Perhaps."

Reluctantly, she released her grip. "Goodbye, monsieur. Thank you for saving my Papa."

"It was my pleasure, mademoiselle." He doffed his hat, then glanced up at Valjean. "Monsieur le Maire, your daughter is quite a remarkable young lady. You mean a great deal to her. I would advise you to remember that."

Javert paused at the door. "Oh, and monsieur?" He turned to look back over his shoulder. "Do try to be more careful." There was the tiniest hint of mirth in his eyes. "The next victim of your charity may not be so generous."

With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

**Aaaaand, there you have it! :) So, what did you think? Love it? Hate it? I had a lot of fun writing the father/daughter interaction between Javert and Cosette in this. I always feel bad for Javert because Valjean at least has Cosette as family, but Javert has literally NO ONE...probably because he has a tendency to scare people off and just be antisocial in general. :P But maybe now he can be like Cosette's uncle or something. XD Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed it! Please consider leaving a review if you have time. :)**

**Until next time, **

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**


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